Five Ways to Say a Name
by Ad-Idem
Summary: Names are given to us to allow us to be different. Names are chosen for them to allow them a moment to feel human.


**Title:** Five Ways to Say a Name  
><strong>Author:<strong> Ad_Idem (Left)  
><strong>Characters:<strong>Liechtenstein, America, and some other round-about mentions. **  
>Rating:<strong> G (although a few "hell"s are scattered here and there)  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Human names are thrown around a lot, and lots and lots of plotless pointless fluff. **  
>Summary<strong>: Names are given to us to allow us to be different. Names are chosen for them to allow them a moment to feel human.

**Left:**I have no excuse for this. None what-so-ever. This basically stemmed from a conversation I had with Right when we stumbled across a list of Pairing names in Hetalia, and there was a distinctive lack of this pairing. Actually, we haven't been able to find it _anywhere_. I have thus (rather ashamedly, mind you) dubbed it BIG BUCKS PAIR.

Also: How come I can't find this pairing _anywhere_? I thought Hetalia boasted its wide range of never-ending pairings? C'MON GUYS.

* * *

><p><strong>Five Ways to Say a Name<strong>

**1/5**

He never thought saying a name and reading a name could ever be split into different categories of "complicated".

But that's all he can think of now as he stares at her name-tag, with its carefully curly handwritten letters and he tells himself it's all got to be his pounding headache from the night-out before that's making it so hard to think suddenly. After all, he's never had trouble saying her name before. It always flowed right off his tongue and he would smile and her face would turn slightly pink at being addressed and she'd stutter a little on her words before answering with a smile of her own.

Yet he's never really given much thought on the hows of her name and what it looks spelled out. Now that he does, he suddenly can't recall exactly _how_ to say her name—

"Mr. America?" she asks, head tilted slightly. The night's events were "formal" (at least that's what was underlined four times in the invitation he got, along with the abundant over-use of the word "_wanker_" (but that could have just been his invitation, now that he thinks about it)), so her rosy dress is swapped for something black but just as conservative, looking oddly out of place in a room full of risqué little-black-dresses. Her purple ribbon trailing down her shoulder suddenly reminds him that he's staring.

He opens his mouth to say something, _anything_, to explain why he was staring at her chest (_name-tag_, not chest), and for once in his comparatively short life finds himself unable to make a sound. "Uh, well, I was…" he tries again, trailing off, and her brows knit together in concern.

"Are you well?" Her hands twitch nervously with the fringe of her dress, her eyes wide with uncertainty.

He could have said a million things. "Hey," for instance. Or "Oh yeah, just tired." Or even, "I was out all night bar-hopping with my relatively quiet brother and we got roaring drunk and now I have the world's biggest hang-over _ever_, so no, I'm not okay, not really, and I can't really figure out how the hell to say your name anymore, so could you help a guy out here?"

But, no. Instead he says, or rather spills out because it all rushes past his mouth in a quick, "_YoucancallmeAlfred_." and then he frowns and runs a hand through his hair because even _he_ doesn't know what he said or where it came from. She's looking blankly at him, so he smiles and blames it on the booze. "I mean, you can call me by my name here." He waves his hand vaguely at the people-in-black dancing stoically around them. "This is kind of an informal… formal… dance kind of thing. Only with ties. And dresses."

"Oh, I… I see," she says, looking as if she's never seen anything less in her entire life. Her ears turn a little pink and she averts her gaze to her now-frayed dress fringe. "Ah, I'm sorry, Mr. America, but I-I don't r-rem-remember exactly…" she trails off, mumbling more or less to her dress than anything else.

"Oh," he blinks, just as caught off guard as she was seconds before. "Oh! No, that's okay! It's Alfred. Alfred Jones is my name," he says, smiling again, because that's all he can think to do at this point.

(And wonder vaguely if Arthur brought any aspirin, because _good god_ his head hurts-)

"Oh, yes! Thank you." Looking as if she was given a great responsibility, she nods, determinedly, and says a little more strongly (to him, not her dress anymore), "Then… are you unwell, Mr. Jones?"

He looks at her for a minute before losing whatever control he had when he walked in and throws back his head and laughs. She looks startled, but he waves it off saying, "It's a start."

* * *

><p><strong>25**

The second time he sees her after the horrible monkey-suit party, she's back in her little pink dress, sitting quietly next to her brother who is compulsively cleaning the crevices in his pistol. He finds it strange that he prefers this dress on her, the one that's so normal it's almost invisible, as he takes a seat in his accustomed chair, the one halfway between everything so he can't do anything without being noticed by _everyone_. Just how he likes it.

Normally.

Today, however, his mind is far from the room and even further from the spotlight, and he doesn't even know why until someone is shaking his shoulder and telling him it's late. Actually, he doesn't even know then either. But he looks up, and it's her, smiling shyly at him with a tilt to her head while everyone else in the room is leaving amongst grumbles and groans of their own.

"No one wanted to wake you up," she explains quietly. "Brother says he likes you better asleep."

"Oh." He blinks and notices the room has done a complete 1-80 in what seemed like seconds, so the place is dark and empty though a few stragglers chat to each other near the doorframe. His brows converge to single line and though he's afraid to ask it, he says, "Did anyone else notice?"

She stares at him for a second before quickly covering her mouth in a sad attempt to smother her laugh. Her eyes are shining and he sighs even before she gives a swift little nod. "I-I'm sorry, Mr. Jones. You snore very loud; it was hard to hear anyone else."

"Perfect," he mutters, because really, what else can he do? He fixes his glasses which have come off at some point from here to the table, and now everything is sharp again. Not that it clears anything up. He wasn't even out late the night before – how could he possibly fall asleep _at a meeting_? Oh, wait.

Just as long as he didn't talk in his sleep.

"I guess no one was killed today then?" He says, not expecting an answer, and thinking of his bed back in the hotel down the street because, well, if you've already been asleep, why change anything? Besides, he has paperwork. Sleeping is the next best step when one has paper work.

But to his utter surprise, she takes the seat next to him, looking quite thoughtful with a finger on her chin. "No," she says slowly and very seriously. "But it was very close."

He blinks a few times unsure if she were kidding or not but she just sits there quietly as if that explained everything. It's another few seconds before he decides he doesn't really care if she is or isn't and grins cheekily. He leans back in his chair, all thoughts of his hotel and his sleep-before-paperwork gone from his mind (though paperwork is never very far close to being _on_ his mind anyway). "So I didn't miss anything," he states, just to clarify.

"Not at all," she says cheerfully. "Although brother did come very close – much more so than usual! – to shooting Mr. France in, ah, t-the uh…" Her face is turning a bright shade of pink and her fingers nervously inch toward her dress fringe. She glances around conspiratorially before leaning in close and whispering in what would have been a staged voice had it been anyone else. "_In the private area_."

And again, he can't help himself. He barks out laughing, long and hard, and this time she isn't nearly as startled by this, but cracks a little smile of her own.

"But I think," she continues as he catches his breath, "Mr. England would have stopped Mr. France from getting to you before brother would had to shoot Mr. France anyway."

And like a hasty dunk in cold fish water, that stops him laughing instantly. "Wha—_what_?"

"The meeting was stopped for twenty minutes because of it." Completely missing (or ignoring) his sudden change of demeanor, she tilts her head to the side (again), eyes distanced as she recalls the day's events. "Miss Belarus decided to come today, too," she adds, as if this were an afterthought.

Still caught up on the would-be attack from his twin's care-taker, it takes a minute for him to be rightly caught up in what she was saying and to react accordingly. "Wait, back up - Ivan's crazy knife-wielding little sister, Belarus? She was here? _And no one woke me up_?" For some reason, seeing Ivan quake in his snow-boots whenever the youngest sibling was around was more than a little surreal to pass up. "And I _slept_ through that? _How_?"

She gives an honest little shrug (somehow she can make even that look innocent) and folds her hands neatly in her lap. "You looked very peaceful, Mr. Jones," she adds, helpfully. "Maybe you are working too hard."

No, he really wasn't. At least he hasn't been trying very hard to look like he's been working, in any case. Election time always made him lazy in work – the constant murmur of conflicted voices in the back of his head as his people fought and argued always did that to him.

"Maybe I am," he concedes at last.

He sighs, and it could have been the dark of the room, or the strange nap he unexpectedly took, but he suddenly feels very stretched and thin, and now that bed down the street in his hotel is calling his name again. But she's sitting there, and he can't just _leave_ her, can he?

Then, suddenly, among all the little voices in his head, one stands out quite clearly among all the rest and, in a strangely familiar accent, says to him, "_You're an idiot." _And though this is far from helpful, it bolsters him and he stands up suddenly and offers out his hand in as a gentlemanly way as possible. "Can I walk you to your room?"

Startled, she blinks up at him with her big eyes for a beat, then two, then three, before she gives a short little nod and takes his proffered hand. "Y-yes, thank you Mr. Am—Mr. Jones. Brother will start to get worried," she adds looking at the window. "I did not realize it was so late."

"Call me Alfred," he says brightly, somewhat more than a little pleased she took his hand.

* * *

><p><strong>35**

The time following the meeting-nap that he runs into her, she isn't wearing a dress. This is the first thing he notices.

The second is the gun she's holding. And that its aim is trained to his stomach with sure and steady hands that show a lot more comfort in handling a gun than any_ normal_ person should. Her normally green, placid eyes are dark and squinted and she looks so completely _serious_ that despite his instincts telling him to duck, he just raises his hands and tries not to grin like an idiot.

He succeeds in doing one of these things with perfect accuracy. "Hi," he says, smiling (and at least tries not to do so like an idiot.)

"Oh," she blinks. _Oh_, she says. Not, _ohmygosh, Mr. America, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to nearly shoot your head off, you startled me so, it'll never happened again_, no. She says "oh" like it's the most perfectly normal thing ever, and, he thinks, maybe it is. Living with her brother had to have some kind of repercussions, right? Right.

"Oh," he repeats, still grinning. Neither of them move and she doesn't lower her gun.

They stand like that for a bit.

Then suddenly she looks down and blushes, though her gun never moves. "Ah, Mr.—"

"Alfred," he corrects. She nods, her eyes still trained on the design in the carpet.

"Mr. Alfred—"

"_Just_ Alfred," he corrects again. She sighs.

"_Alfred_, I think maybe y-you should—"

"Where's your dress?"

Her eyes snap back to his face and she stares, confused. He's a little confused now too, and he rolls his tongue around in his mouth just to make sure. Yup. He's still in control. So why did it suddenly decide to reel off his thoughts like an actor reading its cue cards?

"Uh, I mean, you look… different," he says, trying to salvage his lack of tact. Her reaction plays off in the way her hands grip the rifle aimed at him and realizes just a little too late he might've said the wrong thing. "No, no! That's a good thing! You look good, I was just… I like that dress, is what I meant."

And wearing combat boots and an army uniform, looking as if you could face the world with a stern glare and a gun wasn't weird on her at all. Or out of place. Oh, no. Being her brother's double didn't make her _look_ bad. It made her damn right _scary_.

He wasn't sure if he liked it or not. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't… _her_.

Thankfully, she likes his answer enough to break the silence that had fallen between the two. "Ah, well, brother and I were training today." As she talks, her eyes drift down and her blush deepens, so she turns to stare at the floor again. He doesn't like this, mostly because her blushing means her hands shake. Shaking hands is a dangerous situation that has no happy ending – mostly for him.

He still can't get himself to move, though.

"Training?" He repeats, frowning. Neutral countries wouldn't train, would they? Or would they? "Er – why?"

Looking back, the whole conversation would have gone much smoother had he stuffed his foot into his mouth to begin with, but she doesn't seem to mind (or notice, but really, either answer is fine with him), and she actually brings the gun up as she takes a thoughtful step back. However, now the muzzle is more or less aimed at his _face_, and suddenly he realizes he preferred the original position much, _much_ more.

"Brother says I need to know to defend myself. That… that anything can happen at any time, so we should plan for the worst no matter what." She looks as if this disagrees with her and after a moment she tacks on a, "But to hope for the best more so."

He can appreciate that. "Sounds like your brother is a pretty smart guy," he says softly and she nods fervently.

"He's the best big brother," she says in a way that leaves no room for argument. She hesitates for a fraction before continuing. "But he worries too much. This meeting has had him very strained."

It was some meeting. In fact, he wouldn't even call it a meeting. Actually, he wouldn't call it anything at all since he hasn't actually _been _to the "meeting" yet. But who's ever heard of national meetings at a shooting range anyway?

"Will you be going to the meeting then?" she asks and jars him out of his thoughts. He realizes he hadn't said anything in the past few minutes and shakes his head to clear it.

"Yup! I was just heading there now, actually." He glances at his watch (which was much easier to do than normal, as his hands were still in the _I surrender _position) and frowns a little. "I was trying to get there a little bit early, you know," he shoots her a grin, "to shock the hell outta England for once. But I guess I kinda got a little lost. And then I ran into you! And then you tried to shoot me, so I supopose I have good reasons to be late."

And good excuses, too.

"Oh, yes! I can take you there now, so you won't lose too much more time," she says as she finally lowers her gun, but her face is still turned downward and there's a deep flush to her ears. "But first maybe we can stop at your room, Alfred?"

Pleased that she had finally, _finally_ used his name, he lowers his hands and finally feels safe enough to approach her. He looks at her, curious. "Sure, I guess. But why?"

She mumbles something so incoherently, he was sure it was in another language entirely. Well, actually, it could very well have been. She looks up at him, her face so red against the green uniform it was almost comical. "You, ah, seem to have f-forgotten something this morning," she mumbles as she gestures at him.

A very strange thought occurs to him just as he realizes _why_ it was so very breezy in Switzerland today.

"Oh," he says, looking down at his boxers.

"Oh," she repeats, smiling behind her hand.

"Then I guess my room would be the next best stop," he says, brows furrowing above his eyes, unsure of how he ran out of the room without something as important as _his pants_. And why he's taking this so calmly. Although that would explain the maid's reaction to him earlier when he was asking for directions.

"Yes," she agrees, taking his arm. "Although I am sure England would have been very… _shocked_ if you ran in like that, Alfred."

_My God_, he thinks. _She's brilliant_. "You're absolutely right. On second thought, just take me to the meeting. And,"

"Yes?"

"Call me Al, okay?"

* * *

><p><strong>45**

Following the chance encounter in the halls of her brother's place, the next time he sits across from her is not planned nor is it scheduled or work related. In fact, it's completely, utterly ordinary.

And he's okay with that.

He leans across the table towards her, who is looking through a ratted menu with a thoughtful frown, and tugs on her ribbon. "What're you getting?" He hasn't even bothered to open his – he knows what he wants, even before he decided he wanted to eat here. Sometimes things just worked out like that.

"Hmm," she says, not even looking up. Actually, that's all she says and lapses into a silence that's only broken as she tentatively turns a page. She stares a few more seconds at that page. Then turns it again.

After a few more minutes of this, he nods to himself and says aloud, "Sounds good!" before turning to the waitress who, either in impatience or just sheer habit of past impatience, is tapping her pen repeatedly against her notepad. "We'll be a while then."

With a noncommittal pop of her gum, the waitress leaves the two countries alone to their table. He turns to her with his chin propped in his hands as she turns back to the front page again.

Silence.

"I gotta say, I wasn't expecting to see you," he starts, never one to sit quietly. "I used to take people here all the time when I host meetings." He waves his hand grandly around the little dumpy building. "It's like a second home to me."

"Hmm," she says. She turns another page.

He rubs his chin now. "I don't think I ever took you – well, maybe your brother, but that probably ended bad, knowing him – not that that's anything against him! He's just… gun happy. Actually, I'm kind of surprised he isn't with you! And that he left you without, you know, that big gun you had aimed at my… Uh. Anyway, England _hates_ it here, but I always catch him here around two in the morning. I think it's the old owner here - she's German you know! – but she's got this thing for Arthur, so she spoils him like crazy –"

"Hmm," she says. Well, no, it's not exactly _saying_ so much as a noise she makes in the back of her throat. Like a cat. He nods again, not deterred at all.

"Yeah, and Matt likes this place too, you know, so it's always fun to bring him here. Though getting him into Manhattan is another thing entirely. Him and his igloo fetish or whatever." He slumps in his chair with the fork twirling in his fingers now, around and around, and now he's suddenly thinking of _Two-Face_ of all people (characters?), and she sits there, unmoving, unhmming, and completely engrossed in what she's doing. It had to be some kind of superpower, he thinks. Advanced ignoration.

But then she actually gives a little nod and he stills, thinking maybe, just maybe, he's caught her attention. That she'll look up and smile until her eyes shine and he'll be the center of her attention and this random meeting at a café in the middle of nowhere will turn into something more than a little random.

Instead she turns to the last page of her ratted little menu and burns holes into the fine, gritty print and places a finger on her chin, looking all too thoughtful so late at night and he can't help but let his shoulders slump and a sigh long and loud at her inattentiveness. Being ignored was never one of his strong points – that was more his brother's scene than him. He was, however, never one to give up so easily either.

So he reaches over again, takes her little purple ribbon in his forefinger and thumb, and gives it a little tug. "Hey," he says, "anyone awake in there?"

At that exact moment, her head turns to the side and the ribbon is pulled taut in his fingers and unravels at the seams. The pretty knot it was so delicately in loosens and falls around his hand and he's stuck there, holding a little frail ribbon in his hands, and she's still looking at her menu, green eyes a million miles away, and he has no idea what to do, so he just sits there. Holding a ribbon. A purple ribbon at that. _Her_ purple ribbon.

_Huh_, he thinks. _This is weird_.

Not as weird as running around a mansion without pants on. But still. Weird.

So he sits back, her ribbon in his hand, and he does something completely out of character. He waits.

For how long, he doesn't know, but he doesn't twitch, or drum out a rhythm with his fingers, or tap his foot, or read his own menu. Heck, he doesn't even order food. He just… waits. With her ribbon. And wonders, really, what he's doing.

And then, suddenly, after so long, it's like a light goes on. And he looks up and realizes she's looking at him with those big green eyes as she puts down her menu with delicate ease. "Oh, Alfred," she tilts her head. "When did you get here?"

And he grins, propping his chin in his hands again. "Just got here," he says without missing a beat. "Have you been here before?"

"Oh yes," she smiles, fingers smoothing out her menu carefully. "The owner is an old friend of Mr. Germany's. Did you know she was German?"

"Really? That's awesome. Did you help her start her business?" He asks, though he has no idea where it came from. Nations can always see their people's history in their eyes, but the little old woman who bustles around the café with kind hands and a sharp tongue has always been a little hazy to him – yet he's never _asked_ how the café came to be. It just always… was. It was something he never questioned.

She smiles a little shyly and looks down at her hands, though she's saved from verbally acknowledging it when the waitress comes over and asks (for the final time, she's sure to stress) what their orders are. Looking down at the menu she had dissected all night, her eyebrows are drawn into a funny little frown on her forehead and that finger is back on her chin again.

"I-I'm afraid I don't remember quite what I had—oh," she stops, mid-breath, her fingers instinctively reaching out to twine themselves in her ribbon. The one that's, you know, still in his hand. "My - my ribbon is gone," she says slowly with wide, concerned eyes. "Brother's ribbon."

"Oh, this ribbon?" He says as nonchalantly as possible as he hands over the little purple materiel. She gives a little squeak of shock before whisking it from his hands, and he turns to the waitress who is popping her bubblegum in a very threatening manner and smiles. "We'll have the Tuesday's Special," he orders, handing off his and her menus to the waitress who scowls and doesn't even bother writing down the order. "That is what this place is called, isn't it?" He asks innocently. Well, as innocently as possible.

"Yes," the waitress says, exasperated, as if she wanted to add _it took you all night to figure that out?_ before slipping away to gather their orders, no doubt. Or to ignore them for the rest of the night until her shift is done. Which is probably soon, by the time the clock is telling him from across the room.

"So," he starts, turning back to her carefully. "What were you saying?"

"How did you find it? I don't know what I-I would have done if I misplaced it. Brother would have been very sad," she stops, takes a little breath and ties the little thing back in her hair as carefully as possible. Satisfied that it hangs just right, she looks back up to him and says with such certain sincerity, you'd think he found her lost puppy. "Thank you very much."

"For ordering? No problem! I've been here so many times, I know the all the best things to get," he says, waving his hand dismissively.

"Yes," she says, smiling carefully. "Thank you for that as well, … Al."

"Anytime," he grins, and is finally, _finally_ pleased.

* * *

><p><strong>55**

It was that time again, the one where the invitation doesn't come in the mail, no. No, it actually comes from a skinny little man that delivers _all_ the "important" mail to the nations, and inside is a golden invitation that's been scribbled on all over (formal was highlighted so many times that whatever was written below it was swallowed by the permanent ink, forever condemned to be a mildly curious mystery), though some key words could still be seen. Like _party_, and _being late_, and something or rather about_ git_ and _suit_.

So, he arrives late. Or Fashionably Late, as he insists it is. Although he's never actually found the _exact_ time that was fashionable or unfashionably late (which was actually just called "late", but he'd never admit to that). He always shoots for fashionable, regardless.

A man at the door hands him a nametag and is told where and how to place it on the lapel of his suit. So just to be a pain, he puts it on upside down and on his shoulder. No one seems to notice, so he forgets all about it.

That's when he sees her, sitting quietly at a table filled with bosses and _their_ bosses and a few nations who weren't bosses of anything (though they liked to think they were), and her little-black-conservative-dress is on again, splashed with the purple of her ribbon that means so much to her. In a room full of blacks and grays and starched clothing, the little color stands out like a beacon and he wonders, curiously, how no one else can see it.

Well, he assumes no one else has seen it anyway, else they would have come in and rescued the poor girl from the _bosses_ and _bosses of bosses_ (she can handle the nations just fine) and whisk her away to something a little less mind-numbing than proper etiquette and tea parties. Like dancing. Someone should ask her to dance. He likes to dance. Hell, everyone on some level likes to dance, right? Right.

Actually, he likes this idea so much, he starts forward to do exactly that (to ask her to dance, not dance by himself because that wouldn't be nearly as fun), and is merely a step away, with a hand outstretched and mouth propped open ready to ask, when he spots it. Curly, delicate loops and swirls of letters bunched as close together as possible so the word can fit on the tiny little paper given to them.

The damn nametag again.

It mocks him, he thinks, because that's the only explanation for its power over his mind. It disjoints his ability to read and speak at the same time, and now he's frozen with his mouth half open and a million thoughts screeching to a complete and catastrophic halt in his mind. He tries to think of something, _anything _to say, dimly aware on some level that all attention has been turned to him and his staring at her chest (_nametag,_ it's the nametag he's looking at), but he can't even string more than a few words together to defend himself.

But she sees him (finally) and brings a hand to her mouth to hide her amusement. Too bad it dances so brightly in her eyes. For a second he thinks she's going to rescue him, a drowning man floundering for purchase on something, but she says instead, with slow, unwavering clarity so everyone can hear, "Are you unwell, Mr. Jones?"

"Alfred," he corrects without thinking.

"Al," she agrees with a small smile. "Then, are you unwell, Al?"

"No," he says, then frowns. "Uh, I mean. Yes? Wait." He runs a hand through his hair, confused, before finally deciding on, "Actually, I'm great."

"That's good," she says as she takes his hand. "Then will it be alright if you walk me to the dance floor, Al?"

_Oh_, he thinks. That didn't go quite according to plan. He takes a moment to chew on his tongue before replying. "No," he says, just as slow, forcing his voice to be as even and precise as hers was moments before. "But I will dance _with_ you, if you'd like."

"I think," she says with slow consideration, drawing to her feet, "that that will be even better." Her hand gives his a small squeeze and together they leave the table of onlookers behind them and join the small crowd of moving bodies on the floor.

As they move back and forth among the pairs, she rises up on her tip-toes so she's closer to his ear and says, "It's okay for you to call me Lili, you know."

"Really? Are you sure?" At her nod, he grins (very much like an idiot) and doesn't try near as hard to keep his voice as low as hers. "That's so awesome because you know, I really like your name and everything, but it's really, _really_ hard to say, and sometimes it gets all twisted up and I don't want to _not say_ it but then I might not say it right and—"

"That's okay," she cuts in, laughing as they take another slow spin around. "Sometimes I just like being Lili."

"I like you being Lili too," he says simply, then twists his mouth into something that could have been a thoughtful frown and asks, "Can I call you Secret Agent Sweet Heart, too?"

She laughs at that, drawing attention from a few of the couples around them. "I don't think Brother would like that very much."

And she's so pretty in her little simple dress with sleeves so long they nearly swallow her hands whole, that he can't even think about what he's doing before his mouth is ten steps ahead of him and he hears himself say, "That's okay! He won't like this much either." And before he has time to change his mind (or for her to catch on to what he's doing) he bundles her up in his arms and gently plants his lips against hers. He has one last wondering thought of how she _tastes like honey_ and she gives a little startled squeak, and then that's the last thing he hears for a while.

Actually, he's pretty sure that's the last thing he'll ever hear. And you know, he's okay with that.

When, finally, he pulls back and sets her down, she's staring up at him with those big green eyes and there's a dark pink flush creeping across her face, but she still holds on to his sleeves so it couldn't have been that bad, right?

"Oh," she says, a little breathlessly.

"Oh," he agrees.

"You're right," is all she says, "he won't like it at all."

"Yeah… but I kind of did."

"You know… I think I kind of did, as well." And she smiles and he's _certain_ she can hear his heart skipping a beat, but she just pulls him closer and pecks his cheek and everything seems to be a little okay with the world, even if it was just for that moment.

...

_The End_…_?_

* * *

><p><em>And then everyone was killed by Switzerland's rifle. Well, actually, it was just Al that was caught in the crossfire. And no one was too shocked or appalled by it, so everyone went on like nothing happened and it was never brought again. <em>

_JUST KIDDING._

_But I'm almost sure that exactly what happened next. _

_So, tell me what you think~!_


End file.
